


Moment Of Glory

by Kaz_Langston



Category: Broadchurch
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Panic Attacks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-05
Updated: 2020-01-05
Packaged: 2021-02-27 05:48:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,328
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22122082
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kaz_Langston/pseuds/Kaz_Langston
Summary: A missing scene from season 1 episode 2, the events after Paul says his piece on the TV and Mark Latimer confronts him in the church.Hardy drops by to ask the vicar a couple of questions about the encounter and finds him still panicked.Their relationship can be read however you like.
Relationships: Alec Hardy & Paul Coates
Comments: 2
Kudos: 48





	Moment Of Glory

**Author's Note:**

> If you want to rewatch the scene it’s about 41 minutes into episode 2. 
> 
> Could be part of my Hardy / Paul series but can also be read separately.

"Enjoy your moment of glory, did you?"

Mark Latimer's shout makes Paul jump, still a bit jittery from speaking on camera. He sounds angry, furious, but Paul's too tangled up in his own thoughts to do anything other than turn towards him.

"What? No-" It wasn't a moment of glory, it was an outstretched hand to the community, offering what he could in the way of comfort, and he thinks he did a pretty good job of it.

Before he can protest further there are rough hands fisted in his jumper and he's thrown up against the wall, Mark's strong body against his a terrifying pressure reminiscent of poor choices and too many late nights in dark bars.

"We don't need you. We don't need your support!" He's roaring, furious, and Paul wants to scrabble pathetically at the broad chest in front of him, push him away, but he's frozen, arms suspended in the air in a pointless, impotent surrender.

"Your God left my son for dead!"

Big hands slam him back against the chill stone again, and Paul's head bounces off the wall; between the shock of it and the corded forearms pressing on his chest he can't think. Can't breathe.

Mark lets go, though not because of anything Paul's done, he's just said his piece, and stalks away down the path spitting something acerbic as he leaves.

Gasping, trying to process, a faint voice breaks through the grey mist that's settled over his vision. "You all right?"

He holds up a hand - _I'm fine_ , it says politely, _I'm fine_ , when he wants it to scream _get away! Don't come any closer!_ But it does the job all the same, and the guy trundles off down the path after Mark.

His breaths are coming too rapidly, and he can still feel the pressure of Mark's hands. He can't get enough air.

Paul fumbles the door shut and locks it with adrenaline shaky hands, fighting the urge to collapse against it. It's well within opening hours but he can't face the thought of speaking to anyone right now. At least he can say he's done his duty for the day, speaking on camera; surely he's earned a few minutes of quiet contemplation.

He won't tell Mark that Liz asked him to do it, to stand up for the community. No sense in driving a division through the mourning family, and it's too late anyway. He'd been proud, speaking for his church and his community. But pride is a sin, he knows that. He should have known better.

His rasping breaths are loud in the empty church, hallowed walls reflecting back his own distress. Shoulders curled, he hurries to the vestry, shuts the door behind him. Locks it too, hands no more stable than they were at the main entrance. He's never been attacked in the church before - in the street, yes, but never in this sanctuary - and the shock of it churns in his gut.

He sits with his forearms flat on his desk as he tries to breathe. Inhale - hold - exhale. Count to five on the way in, hold for five, out for five. It helps, a bit, but when he closes his eyes all he can see is Mark Latimer's furious face, spittle flying as he shouts.

Paul presses his fingers along the base of his throat and the soft jut of his collarbones, feeling out the damage. They're sore; he'll have bruises tomorrow.

The communion wine has never seemed so tempting, and he's more glad than ever that he's taken precautions, the cupboard double locked with keys kept far enough away that his traitorous hands can't just reach out for them.

If someone offered him a drink, right now, he wouldn't refuse, and that knowledge is as much of an attack as the one that has him sat with his head in his hands.

*-*-*-*-*

Hardy picks up his phone on the second ring. "What?"

Bloody liaison officer, what's his name, Ben? Josh? He's all fluff and panic, not done a single useful thing since the start of this whole investigation.

"It's Mark Latimer, sir. He's gone after the vicar, he was on the telly."

Shit.

"Still there? Anyone injured?" He's halfway to the Latimers' house already, a diversion via the church is easy enough. Fighting in the wake of a murder is common, ugly, but a great opportunity to question people with their guard down.

"No, he looked pretty shaken up but not hurt."

"Keep Latimer at home, I'll come round later."

When he gets to the church he's disconcertingly out of breath, though it's not a long walk. The door's locked, a great wooden thing with wrought iron fastenings that looks like it could stand up to a mob.

He knocks gently, but after a minute with no answer hammers on it with a closed fist, head bowed to catch any sound. "Coates? You in there?"

There's a noise from inside that might be footsteps.

"Who is it?"

The voice is deep, but uncertain; muffled by the thick wooden door. He can't place the accent.

"Police. I want to speak with you about Mark Latimer."

"Now's not a good time." There's definitely a shake in the voice. It's cruel to keep pushing, he knows that, but he's never been a fan of the church and if a little bit of cruelty helps him get answers, so be it.

"I know he attacked you. I just have a few questions." This is getting ridiculous, talking to a door. "Won't be long."

He hears the metallic clunk of a key in the heavy lock and expects the door to swing open, but it doesn't, and he tries the handle with a scowl. It doesn't open. Either it wasn't locked in the first place or the vicar was making doubly sure of it.

This guy's shiftier and more annoying by the minute.

"You can stay out there and ask questions or you can come back later."

Hardy rolls his eyes, but gives up and leans against the door. It's only the same as a phone interview, really.

"What did Mark Latimer want?"

"Didn't like me talking on TV."

The voice moves lower; either he's fallen over or he's taken a seat against the door. Now's not the time for intimidation, better to put himself on a level with the man, so Hardy slides down too, the ground cool through his thin trousers. It's a familiar position, comfortable, and he can rest his arms on his knees, taking advantage of a brief moment of peace in the midst of the chaos of the investigation.

"You know him well?"

"I know the family."

More questions, short and sharp and to the point. The answers aren't much either, informative enough but brusque; clearly the man doesn't really want to chat. He sounds calmer though, less panicked now Hardy's stopped being confrontational. 

Look at that, bad cop and good cop all by himself.

Eventually he stops the questioning. He's not really getting anywhere, though he's not really trying, plus he's late to his talk with Mark Latimer and he'd like to catch him on the back foot as well.

One last question, one he doesn't usually ask but probably should, and he's warmed enough to the voice on the other side of the door that he actually half wants to know. "Are you alright?"

A heavy sigh that he can practically feel through the heavy wood.

"I'll be fine."

There's a rattle of metal and the door swings open behind him, leaving Hardy scrambling inelegantly to his feet.

The man who stands in the doorway is handsome, though his eyes are reddened and the pink tip of his nose stands out from a pale face. His clerical collar is slightly askew.

"You've been very - kind. Calming."

Hardy's momentarily speechless.

"Paul Coates." The vicar extends a hand, and eventually Hardy reaches out and shakes it. It's warm; surprisingly calloused.

"DI Alec Hardy."

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[Podfic] Moment Of Glory](https://archiveofourown.org/works/22469599) by [Kaz reads (Kaz_Langston)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kaz_Langston/pseuds/Kaz%20reads), [Kaz_Reads](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kaz_Reads/pseuds/Kaz_Reads)




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